


The Desert Sighs in the Bed

by Still_and_Clear



Series: In the Basin [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Mild Angst, Recollection of Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More random musings from Frederick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desert Sighs in the Bed

**Author's Note:**

> People actually read the first chapter! Thanks to all :) Only one more chapter after this one. Any feedback gratefully received.

Still ruminating gloomily, Frederick drained the dregs of the cocoa from the cup, huffily noting that Hannibal's recommendation of the fancy brand had been impeccable, as usual. The light had faded outside, and the room was shadowed. When Frederick bought this house, he had liked how the big windows let the sun travel round the rooms throughout the day, but at dusk it often felt like the life left the house. The white rooms seemed colder, too, with the sun gone, and Frederick shivered. Sighing, he got up and headed to his bedroom to find a sweater.

He opened his bedroom door and flicked on the light. Unlike the rest of the house, Frederick had used rich blues and browns to decorate his bedroom. While the other rooms had been decorated with an eye to an audience, this was to be warm and cosy, somewhere he could bury himself with books and find a little comfort at the end of the day. He walked slowly towards the bed and absently smoothed his hand over the duvet, letting his fingertips trail slowly over the cool fabric. Of course, that wasn’t the only kind of comfort he had hoped to find in this room. He felt a flush rise over the back of his neck. His hunger for – not just sex – but some _intimacy_ was as acute as his need for success, these days. He had thought, for a brief time, that Alana Bloom had perhaps been open to more than professional friendliness. However, the business with Abel Gideon had poisoned that. He had had a rude awakening even before then, though, when Will Graham had drawn attention to his clumsy misstep in his office – _more or less_ – and he’d suddenly realised that what he’d seen in Bloom’s eyes was, at best, an amused tolerance. He winced at the memory, fingers fiddling awkwardly with his cane in remembered embarrassment.

Actually, he had begun to suspect recently that Alana Bloom and Hannibal were something of an item. He'd noticed, with a dull, sulky envy, a subtle shift in their interactions while he monitored their visits to Graham. He pouted disconsolately at the thought of it, more rose petals for Hannibal, more rotten fruit for Frederick. He made an effort to swallow down his bitterness, though. Hannibal’s regular dinner invitations were a highlight of his days right now, the friendly contact something he prized jealously, as well as the cachet of being one of the esteemed doctor’s favoured dinner guests. He found himself turning the invitations over in his mind for days before the dinner, like he would a favourite talisman, warm and smooth in his palm. Hannibal’s praise of his recovery at their last dinner had buoyed his mood for days, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards at the memory even now.

Crossing to the wardrobe, he loosened his tie and removed his shirt. Catching sight of himself in the mirrored door, he stopped abruptly, hand fluttering tentatively to the thin, red scar that bisected his torso. At least Gideon’s surgeon’s ego had overrode his need for revenge when it came to stitching him up, he thought sourly. Although who else would be seeing it, anyway? Who would want to see him like this, now, when they hadn’t been particularly eager before? Turning his head sharply from the reflection and the memories and the self-pity, he took a warm sweater from the shelf and pulled it on. Feeling no desire to head back downstairs to the darkening living room, he took the book from his bedside table and sat listlessly down on the bed, slouching back against the headboard.

The book, however, lay unopened in his lap. The sight of his scar often made the memory of that night gurgle to the surface – despite his ruthless attempts to tamp it down. It was blurry and muffled, punctuated by Gideon’s sharp slaps to keep him awake, and the terrible sensation of his hand rooting about in his abdomen. The only image that had any clarity, strangely, was Freddie Lounds’ face, her sharp blue eyes holding his own with uncomplicated concern. He had been grateful for her silence and the steadiness of her hands – really, she had displayed remarkable composure. He thought of his own disastrous foray into surgery, and guiltily wondered whether he would have been quite so calm, knowing at heart that he wouldn’t have been. He hadn’t seen her afterwards, hadn’t had any visitors in the hospital, actually. He did find, though, that her vivid face in his otherwise bleary flashbacks often acted as an anchor, helping him find firm footing and escape the memory. Even now, oddly invigorated by the image, he found the energy to get to his feet and head downstairs to turn the lights on. Maybe he’d call Hannibal and ask what wine he should bring on Thursday.


End file.
